Nostrum
by Lascylla
Summary: So long has he slumbered beneath the earth, barely aware of passing centuries, of the wars that rage above his head. Time changes everything, and they have lost their fear of the ruinous god they once locked away. Desperation drives them to release him, though they know not what they unleash upon their world. [Solas/OFC] [Far distant future AU]
1. Chapter 1

He no longer remembers his name. He thinks it might have meant something once, a label that laid bare the darkest part of his nature (though the darkest part was never pride, but pragmatism). He supposes it matters not, for there is no one to call him by it anymore.

The humming stone has grown quieter of late, as though it had forgotten him. Forgotten its purpose. No matter; he too has forgotten his purpose. If the stone forgets to hum for a time, perhaps he might be able to sleep at last? It would be something, to dream again.

It has been years since he last moved. But he finds that the quiet makes him restless (though applying the word 'restless' to being motivated to lift a single hand might be a little generous). He explores the dips and valleys, the sharp peaks of his knuckles and the elegant length of his fingers with a curious gaze. He wonders if his hands have always been so very long and pale. _Skeletal, that's the word._ He has long since forgotten what he looks like. Suspects he may no longer look as he once did, provided he once looked any way at all. He is not convinced he even exists, and even if he does, does it really count as existing if no one else knows you do? He concedes that it probably does; if he can have these thoughts it is highly likely he is extant. He would not go so far as to say 'alive', though.

An interminable amount of time later (or perhaps it was only moments- it is difficult to tell when one's consciousness drifts in and out of congruity), there came a deafening rumble. He wonders fleetingly if the stone has learned to _rumble_ instead of _hum_? But then out of the darkness falls a shower of dust that grits in his eyes and settles over his body like a rough, particulate blanket. The humming has stopped altogether.

This is new. He raises one _skeletal_ hand (he is momentarily pleased at his recollection of the word), and gingerly brushes debris out of his eyes. Of course, rubbing only drives the tiny crystals deeper into his sockets. He thinks it is a good thing he seems to no longer have actual eyes, else this would be painful instead of just uncomfortable.

He must once have had eyes then. That is an interesting notion. It seems obvious, of course, just as it was perfectly natural for him to have hands, but he still has those, so... that means he must have changed at some point. He has not always been this way, although he _has_ always had hands.

The rumbling stops and starts, and the dust piles higher on his prone form. It clogs his nostrils and fills his eye sockets and tumbles into his ears, but he makes no further move to dislodge it. There truly is no reason to bother; he has no need of air, and there is nothing to see, and if rumbling and humming are the only things to hear, well... They certainly don't inspire him to listen. He closes his eyes against the grit and lets his mind drift lazily into sub-consciousness. Whatever is happening, it will happen with or without his observation of it. He has exhausted all of his curiosity for now.

Perhaps in another decade or so he will lift the other hand.


	2. Chapter 2

The rumbling grows louder, closer, a deafening roar that culminates in a heavy crack, and then smaller ones. Over and over, crack, crack, crack. It is enough to wake him from his semi-slumber, though he does not bother to open his eyes. He is well and truly buried in rock-dust now, a heavy layer of it pinning his body to the stone. He expects he could extract himself if he had to, but sees no immediate reason to do so. In fact, cannot fathom any reason he might ever need to move.

The crack-crack-cracking continues until he becomes so accustomed to the cacophonous rhythm that his mind begins to drift again.

Time passes, as it does, and something presses on him through his gritty casing, a scraping thing that pulls the weight of the granulated rock away from his wasted form. Voices touch his ears for the first time in memory, harsh and unintelligible, mutters and shouts from varying distances and angles, growing louder as the scraping continues.

When the speaking creatures finally unburden his face they seems to hesitate, quiet for a moment, but after a time they resume dusting away the remaining matter with brisk, business-like strokes.

From the raucous cheers and relieved mutterings, they have apparently pronounced him officially unburied and he vaguely wonders when they will cease their noise and let him rest again. But it is not to be, he realizes, as one of the implements from before is dug firmly against his ribs. He slowly opens his eyes to level a reproving glare at whoever is wedging their tool into his side but the stabbing brilliance of torchlight sends a bolt of swift agony through his not-eyes and he reflexively slams them shut again.

There is a brief hush, as though they are waiting for something, then the moment passes and hands grab at his limbs and he is lifted, not entirely ungently, onto something hard and flat. He attempts to glean a momentary look at his circumstances as the surface is hefted upwards as though onto many shoulders, but the pain of the light quickly proves too much. He is too tired to try again, his limbs weighed down with a kind of eternal exhaustion, as though full of the sand he was buried under.

He soon grows used to the swaying movement of being carried and drifts away into the refuge of his mind once more.


	3. Chapter 3

A gentle tide of magic washes over him, pressing into the hollows between his bones, and coaxing his mind into wakefulness. He drowsily blinks open his not-eyes, squinting against dim candle light. A kind sounding voice reaches his ears, muffled for the moment, but slowly growing clearer. The words remain meaningless, but the tone conveys a degree of tenderness. He slowly tilts his head towards the voice, blinking to clear the smudges from his vision.

A man, older, with greying hair and lines in his brown skin, who smiles encouragingly at the movement.

He blinks again, slowly, trying to stay awake; it seems he is supposed to? He fails though, a soft sigh passing his lips as his eyes slide shut again.

* * *

Again and again the gentle magic coaxes him into consciousness, and every time he manages to stay awake for just a little while longer than the last. The words of the old man do not coalesce into something intelligible, but they manage some small communication. A bone broth is waiting for him every time he wakes, bowl lifted by the man and determinedly poured down his throat bit by bit. He protests in the beginning, but when the liquid hits his tongue for the first time, he nearly doubles over with hunger at the taste. He doesn't protest the broth thereafter.

* * *

Something is grazing the blade of his ear, back and forth, barely there and almost reverent in its gentleness. He exhales softly, a small sound of involuntary pleasure at the tenderness. The touch stills and disappears, and he blinks his eyes slowly open. A pale figure, draped with dark robes and dark hair, leans over him, watching him with curious blue eyes. She steps back quickly, putting some distance between them, and sounds pour from her mouth, as incomprehensible as all language is to him. He gets the impression she is apologizing. Or explaining something, maybe?

She falls silent on a gesture at her own rounded ears, reddening with apparent embarrassment, but his eyes are slipping closed again anyway, and she disappears from view. He is too tired to remain awake, let alone interpret her attempts at communication.

* * *

Slowly he grows stronger, until he can stand with the help of his caretaker (who appears to live in the small room, judging by the cot in the corner). He requires support to walk, but soon he is making his way to the water closet unaided, if slowly. It is then that the others begin visiting. At first they simply stand in the doorway and gawk, wide eyed and nervous, but soon they come inside as though they own the place. As though they own him. He thinks at this point that their features may have changed, become more rounded. Certainly, the proprietary ones who sweep disdainful gazes over him and his caretaker seem bigger. It is an odd observation, but one that seems eerily familiar, though he has no clue why that might be, and no mental reserves to give it much thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Anger wakes him, the sound of heated arguing jolting him from his slumber. There is a new person in his room; a robed man with an arrogant air, who is pointing at him and motioning two large men through the door. They lumber inside, burdened with shackles and chains, and the unwitting god pushes himself to his feet, wary. He doesn't bother to struggle, though the men seem prepared for him to do so, hands on their weapons as they approach. He stands immobile, watching the scene unfold with blank eyes.

The brawny pair secure the shackles around his angular wrists while the arrogant, berobed one snaps something at the old man, who looks as though he would dearly like to throw a punch. He doesn't, though, merely clenches his hands into fists and backs into the corner, head lowered in a practiced show of deference.

The robed man nods with satisfaction upon seeing the prisoner shackled, and turns on his heel, sweeping from the room with a dramatic flair of robes. A vague prickle of humor stirs in the prisoner's throat, but he does not give his chuckle voice. Partly because he knows it would be unwise, but mostly because he simply cannot summon the energy.

The guards pull him forward, set him walking in front of them while they watch his every movement from a pace behind him. He obliges them without issue, though he struggles to keep up with the pace set by the robed man. His muscles are still virtually nonexistent and he drags himself along with sweat beading on his skin. He is surprised by how difficult simple movement is for him, as though it hasn't always been this hard.

The sun is high, and hot, and he feels a trickle of sweat roll down the side of his face. His thin shirt clings to his skin, and he is barely keeping his feet by the time the guards pull him to a halt.

The robed man turns to watch him with a distinctly unimpressed air, though his face is now a blur, as everything else has become. Exhaustion seems to numb his senses, blur his vision and blunt his hearing. But he notices when the robed man gestures towards someone, and with some effort he manages to swing his gaze to follow the movement. Dark robes and pale face, a woman-shaped figure steps forward. Had he the energy to focus his gaze, he would note the uncertainty in her step, the hesitation in the way she approaches him. But staying on his feet takes precedent, and so he concentrates on fighting the swaying of his weak legs.

She stops before him, within arms reach, and slowly holds out her hand towards him. He gets the impression she is offering it to him to sniff, as one might with a strange dog before petting it. His lips quirk momentarily with amusement, and his eyes muzzily track the progress of her hand towards his face. She pauses, fingers hovering next to his temple, then gently presses them against his skin.

Images flash through his mind, saturated with intention, purpose, like a drop of water on the parched tongue of a man dying of thirst. He lunges forward, trying to pull more of it inside himself, but the connection breaks and the woman stumbles back, eyes wide, while the men holding the chains yank him to his knees with angry shouts.

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt for a long moment, staring into the middle-distance, gaze vacant. There is little happening in his mind beyond the pounding urge to drive his feet into the ground and lunge at the woman, to try and wrest some of that beautiful purpose from her again.

He feels the chains slacken just slightly as his jailers shift, muttering to one another, and takes his chance without hesitation. He launches himself through the air, expending what little energy he has left in a monumental effort to reach her, only to feel a lurching, yanking sensation as his trajectory is sharply altered downward. The hard impact of ribs against ground, cheekbone and temple colliding with rock in cracking succession, and then nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

Slowly, he wakes. His head pounds with every beat of his heart, a spear of pain that pulses in his temple and around his right eye. His lungs feel crushed, as though he is buried once again below a dense mound of heavy sand, centered on his torso. There is a strange tugging sensation behind the pain in his chest, like something is trying to unravel a knot that hides behind his heart.

His eyes come open without his permission, but the dim light of a single lamp fails to hurt them. It is unlikely he would notice that kind of pain through the cacophony of hurt he is currently being assaulted by, anyway.

There are hands hovering over his ribs, and he bends his neck just enough that he can see who they belong to. The woman, again, with the dark eyes and the burning purpose that calls out to his hollow spirit. He half tries to reach for her, but his hands are bound and his body doesn't respond to his commands. She looks worried, brows knitted, teeth biting her lower lip as she concentrates on whatever she's trying to do. He exhales slowly, trying not to jostle his broken ribs, and lowers his head against the bed again. He's in too much pain even to watch, can't hold his head at that angle, so he closes his eyes again and lets the pulsing red throb of his injuries take over.

He hears her huff in frustration some time later, still hovering over him. Whatever she's trying to do, it's apparently not working. He opens his eyes again, and manages to tilt his head just so, and he can watch her for a while.

She looks up, sees he is awake and pauses in her ineffectual ministrations. She unbends her spine, stands straight and considers him for a moment. She seems to come to some decision or other, and steps closer to his head, holding out one hand and gently pressing it to his not-broken temple. He wonders for a moment why she keeps her gaze averted from his eyes?

After a second's delay, he sees flashes of knitting wounds displayed on the insides of his eyelids, the impression of healing fractures pressed into his mind, and then a surge of energy. She is trying to heal him, but it isn't working.

She pulls back, forces her eyes to his, discomfort plain on her face, but she needs to know he understands. He nods his head minutely, just a shift of his chin, he can manage no more than that. Hope dawns on her face, and she brings her hands to his torso again, lays them against his shattered, skin-and-bones ribcage, eyes locked with his.

This time, when he feels the tug in his chest, he follows it, allows the power coiled behind his heart to unravel and be drawn to her will. The sensation of bones knitting together at a speed that should not be possible is one that is strangely familiar to him. The familiarity of the feeling does nothing to diminish the discomfort, however. It is like a deep ache and a tremendous pressure all at once, and he hisses his breaths through clenched teeth.

The woman murmurs something that sounds like it is meant to be comforting; low, gentle tones draped over rounded syllables. She turns to watch her work and he gives in to the urge to let his head drop against the mattress.

The bone-deep pressure soon ceases, though the ache remains, and he thinks his bones don't feel quite so much like shards of broken glass shoved randomly through flesh, anymore.

The woman appears in his line of sight again, standing over his head with an uncertain air about her. He tilts his head slightly in question, and the movement sends a spike of pain lancing through his skull. Oh. She is possibly concerned about attempting to heal what feels like a crack in his skull. He's fairly sure he can't die, though where that notion comes from he couldn't say, and so he attempts to look encouraging. She just frowns deeper. He thinks he may not have succeeded; it's possible his expression looked more pained than reassuring.

The woman sighs and gingerly cups her hand over his broken cheekbone, obviously resigning herself to healing the least worrying of his two head injuries for now. He keeps his eyes open until the glow of her hand makes it impossible, and wonders vaguely what it might feel like to have someone touch him with kindness when he isn't in excruciating pain.

His mana rises eagerly to do her bidding, spreading from his face up into the crack in his skull. It's pressure and pain and he breathes through both, measured inhalations and exhalations. His hands clench into fists where they lie bound on his stomach, and he squeezes his eyes shut as though trying to deny the building pressure.

The hands leave him then, and he blinks open his not-eyes to find her looking at him with an unreadable gaze. She lays a hesitant hand against his shoulder, a gentle pressure and softening of her eyes, and then she is gone. Exhaustion washes over him like a wave, and he lets it roll him under, succumbing to the peaceful numbness of sleep with deep-seated relief.


	6. Chapter 6

He is woken by another round of healing. It seems now that he has given his mana permission to follow the directions of the woman, it will do so even while he is unconscious. He has no frame of reference for whether or not that is strange, so he thinks no further on it past noting the occurrence. She glances down from where her hands hover over his smooth scalp, eyes brushing over his briefly, before moving back up to focus on her work. He thinks that maybe she is uncomfortable, looking into eyes that are not eyes.

His hands are still bound, but he doesn't try to move them anyway, beyond testing whether or not he _can_ move them. He sighs softly, then winces at the stab of pain from his abused ribs. The atmosphere in the room is tense; with good reason, he supposes. He did try to attack her the first time they met. If only he could communicate with her, he thinks he might be able to explain why he lunged for her. The memory brings with it a delicious curl of purpose that rises warm and forceful in his chest, and suddenly he is holding himself back from trying to free his hands, lest she think he will attack her again. He almost chuckles; he certainly would if he could.

He wonders, though, what he would do if he _could_ get his hands on her. He's not sure how she pressed the _feeling_ into his chest, other than that it was likely in the same way she communicated her attempt to heal him, and he doesn't know that any emotion he could force her to give him would be one he might wish to experience.

His mind tires quickly of thinking actual thoughts, but he is pleased by how coherent he has managed to be so far this day, even simply in his own head. He wonders if he can speak words out loud. He's not certain what they might sound like; his mind is full of images and impressions, though every now and then he thinks a word sneaks through. He's not sure. The things he thinks are words could simply be very distinct auditory thoughts that only carry the cadence of language without the meaning. Another heavy sigh leaves his lips and he closes his eyes once more. Thought is taxing without a coherent manner in which to think.

Many more times he wakes to find her healing him, and soon she is pouring small mouthfuls of soup into him, after having heaved him into a sitting position. It is probably just as well that he is as emaciated as he is, for she surely couldn't have lifted him were he healthier.

His hands twitch every now and then, when he recalls the sensations she pushed into him before, but he manages to hold himself back from attempting to break the ropes around his hands. He thinks it unlikely he _could_ break them, but he is pleased with his self-restraint nonetheless.

* * *

When she has to help him to the water closet, he notes that her cheeks turn red. It amuses him just a little, for surely he is the one who should be embarrassed out of the two? He is, after all, the invalid.

It is on what he thinks might be the third day of his recuperation that he decides it is time he attempted to speak. He has no idea whether or not the language that he knows will be comprehensible to the woman, but he has a desire to try and communicate, regardless.

She is approaching him with soup again, having just helped him sit up, and he is convinced that he knows the word for the thing the soup comes in.

He opens his mouth and, having rehearsed the word many times over in his head, he shapes his lips and tongue around it and hopes his throat will cooperate.

"Bowl," he rasps, nodding towards the soup in her hands.

She pauses, eyes wide, glances down at the bowl and back up again. Her mouth works silently for a moment before she says something utterly unintelligible to him, but he thinks it sounds like a question.

He shrugs his shoulders self-deprecatingly and gives her a small smile of encouragement. She swallows nervously and approaches him, placing the bowl on the table beside the bed, and settling herself on the edge of the mattress.

She holds eye contact with him and he thinks that at some point over the last few days she seems to have become used to his strange eyes. She points to herself and says "Aeliana," in a quiet, clear voice.

He blinks and slowly repeats the word- probably her name, he assumes.

She nods excitedly and points at him, eyebrows raised in question.

He slowly shakes his head, watches her face rearrange itself into confusion. He guesses that she cannot fathom not knowing ones' own name. He thinks it must be strange, but he is very old. He has probably had many names, and none come to his mind now. He raises his hands, bound together as they are, and points to his head with a frown.

Aeliana nods slowly, her eyes clearing as though he has explained something to her. He shakes his head in frustration and reaches for her hands where they lay in her lap. She springs up from the bed, startled, but she doesn't go far, watches his face with a mixture of curiosity and fear. He did attack her once, but he thinks that she really ought to be less afraid of him now, considering how helplessly dependent on her he has been.

She doesn't move further away, but neither does she come closer. His hands fall back into his own lap, and he huffs with quiet frustration, before gesturing to his own head again, eyebrows raised. She hesitates for a moment, her expression clearing again, and he thinks she might have understood him this time.

She steps closer and tentatively extends her hand towards his head, keeping her gaze locked with his as though to monitor his reaction. He nods encouragingly, and she brings her fingers to his temple again.

This time no images rush into his mind, just the faint impression of a presence, and he latches onto it, pulls it into the landscape inside his head. He can feel her struggle against him in surprise, but he lets out his aura to soothe her, and it laps against her presence in his mind like warm water, lulling her into comfort. The lack of words, indeed, the lack of shared language is difficult here as well, but at least he can give her images and impressions that might convey his meaning more effectively than hand gestures.

He brings up an image of himself, as he thinks he looks, though the face is indistinct and the shape of the body wavers and changes fluidly. He really cannot recall who he is, and he pushes this thought at her desperately, though it is made of shapes and feelings and confusion rather than words.

He lets her go, then, and she clasps her arms around herself as though to ease a chill from her skin. She is staring at him with lingering confusion and a dawning understanding. She might not know much about him, but she knows more than anyone else alive, he thinks.

The woman nods again, licks her lips as though to buy time for her thoughts to arrange themselves, and then murmurs, hushed, "Elven?"

He startles, his body tensing with recognition, and he nods, though he is not quite sure what he is agreeing to.

The woman fingers one of her rounded ears with a thoughtful expression on her face. She almost looks wistful, he thinks, as though contemplating something long lost, and bitterly so.

She seems to make up her mind about something, and digs around determinedly in a cupboard over by the far wall. She returns to his side with a knife in her hand, and he feels a moment of trepidation as she brings it to his hands. But she only slices through the rope binding him, and pulls it away with a twist of disgust on her lips. He wonders just what has brought about this change in her attitude towards him. Surely a single word could not hold such power?

When her eyes rise to meet his, they are shining with something he cannot put a name to. He might almost call it hope, if he had to label it. There is a weight on his chest then, a heavy thing that feels all too familiar. He is in something, now, and he has no idea what it might be, but it is a burdensome thing that he thinks might almost feel... right.


End file.
